


Bamboo

by dark_muse_iris



Series: Call Me Mistress [7]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, BDSM, Cock Slapping, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Fetish, Fetish Clothing, Groping, Humiliation, Lace Panties, Masturbation, Name-Calling, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Panties, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Slapping, Smut, Submission, Transvestic fetishism, Verbal Humiliation, spitting, sub!taehyung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: The Mistress offers her services to an affluent client seeking a sharp tongue and merciless hand.Excerpt:The subway doors opened at the next chime and your client’s eyes widened. He swallowed deeply and wiped his palms against his slacks, presumably to dry the sweat from them. You turned your head and peeked down the aisle to confirm the passengers were still maintaining their disinterest, then you turned back to the young man.“Did you see their faces?” you purred in his ear. “What would they say if they knew the prince of the city was here, wearing lace panties under all that power?”He licked his lips. “They’d be ashamed of me.”





	Bamboo

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Taehyung x OC
> 
> Genre: Smut, angst
> 
> POV: 2nd Person (from the Mistress' perspective)
> 
> Warning: Sub!Taehyung, Domme!OC, BDSM, femdom, sexual themes, sex work, exhibitionism, light transvestic fetishism, degradation (verbal and physical), dirty talk, name-calling, groping, excessive slapping, spitting, masturbation, profanity, mentions of statutory rape, mentions of abusive parents

The rickety sound of metal knocking against the rails was one of the most relaxing sounds to grace your ears. The subway, an undesirable travel choice for others, felt like home to you. It brought back pleasant memories of riding the rail as a teenager. Most of those trips were after school, but you had your moments of sneaking out too. Your first kiss was on the subway. It was sloppy with too much tongue and teeth, but at fifteen you couldn’t be more excited to feel like an adult. You felt special; you felt sexy. And you thought you knew it all back then, which is why you didn’t see any problems when that same nineteen-year-old put his hand up your skirt the following week.

A lot of your sexual education came from cheap thrills on public transit. Exhibitionism wasn’t your cup of tea, but you were far from repelled by it. Any shame for committing lewd acts in public had died out by your sixteenth birthday. Instead, you were left with a unique body of knowledge gained at a time when the city cared less about appearances. It was a different time fifteen years ago. Nowadays, efforts to reclaim former projects and working-class neighborhoods had created an urban sprawl that brought in the kind of people you despised growing up, namely the affluent who thought flashing their cash would solve anything.

It was ironic, all things considered. You hated the wealthy growing up and now you’re one of them, sitting on enough money to retire before thirty-five. And here you were, riding the working-class transportation of choice, holding a large bag of overpriced groceries in your arms. The long baguette peeking from the top of it was made from sourdough and smelled as expensive as it was. You figured the aroma of the bread would aid in the charade you were about the play.

Today, you were pretending to be a lady of proper upbringing. You saved your pastel teal lingerie for the occasion, concealing the ensemble beneath a knee-length rose sundress and white cardigan, with light pink heels to match. You felt like you were on the way back from Mass, but it was the client’s request that you look as inconspicuous as possible.

You rode the rail for two more stops, taking in the scent of fresh sourdough, then you heard the bell of the subway doors open. Your client, Bamboo, entered the rail car with a rush of his feet, just as the doors were about to close. He’s tall, well-dressed, with sun-kissed skin that draws attention from attracted onlookers wherever he goes–except the subway, where everyone stays glued to their phone. If any of them were subscribers to the city newspaper, they may have recognized him, for he was Kim Taehyung, heir apparent to Kim Pharmaceuticals.

Owned and operated by Taehyung’s father, known locally as “Doctor Kim,” Kim Pharmaceuticals was the third largest employer in the city. Everyone who lived downtown either worked for the Kim family, knew someone who did, or used their products. Your financial donations to the women’s clinic you frequented helped pay for their contraception, provided below cost to women in need. The Kims’ web of influence knew no limits, making them one of the wealthiest families in the region.

You could see that wealth in the silk button-up your client selected to wear. It was rare to see designer patterns on the subway, especially threads as eccentric as his were today. The corners of your lips perked up at the sight. He didn’t know how to dress in order to blend in because he was never meant to blend in.

He turned and headed toward the back of the car, following the instructions he had previously been given. His eyes remained cast to the floor as he refused to look at anyone, pushing one polished shoe in front of the other in a relaxed stride. It wasn’t until he was close to his destination that he saw you, dressed conservatively and wearing lighter makeup than you would normally wear. He stalled, opening his mouth as if he had something to say, but as soon as you looked at him, he cleared his throat and continued walking.

 _Good, he remembers_ , you thought, relaxing your shoulders.

Your client took a seat in the last row of the rail car on a bench partially hidden by extra walls. The corner of the car was probably meant for storage of luggage, but it wasn’t unheard of to use it for privacy on long rides. The seat was tucked away from the view of most of the passengers, and that was why it was so critical he retrieve it as soon as he arrived. Now that he was sitting in his designated seat, you could see the way he was vigorously rubbing his palms against his dress slacks. He was apprehensive, more so than you expected.

Another chime of the subway doors summoned more passengers into the subway car, coaxing you naturally toward the last open seat—next to your client. When you appeared on his row, he looked distracted.

“Do you mind if I sit here, sir?” you asked, smiling like a pre-school teacher on the first day of class. “Everywhere else is full. I have a long way to go.”

He blinked in alarm, then nodded quickly. “Sure. Here, let me help you with those.”

His arms outstretched to take your paper bag of groceries into his lap and he scooted closer to the window, offering you enough space to join him.

“Thank you so much.” You drew out your syllables to soften your tone. “I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

As a local celebrity, he has been groomed to say the right things in the right manner. Consequently, it was hard to get a full read on him. So, you improvised to give yourself a little more time. You hoped idle chat would calm his nerves and lessen the number of nearby passengers.

Taking the bag of groceries back from him, you shook your head in feigned disappointment. “Can you believe this bread cost me twenty dollars?”

Your client raised an eyebrow in confusion, recognizing right away that you were operating outside of your pre-arranged conversation topics.

“Oh, it’s not a French baguette?” he asked, wiping his hands again.

“That’s the thing,” you began to explain, “I _thought_ it was. But when I got to the register, they told me it was artisan sourdough bread. I wanted to put it back but,” you paused to squeeze the bag, “it smelled _so_ good. I hope my boyfriend likes it.”

“Your boyfriend, huh?”

Your client’s lips twitched and you saw a smile begin to form.

_Yes, I_ _’m full of shit. Now let’s relax and continue the game._

“Yes,” you chirped, feeding your bubbly persona. “I’m hoping to make him a nice dinner for our anniversary tonight. It’s a new recipe and I’m a little nervous about it.”

He relaxed his shoulders a little at that statement. “I’m sure you’ll do well. There’s no need to be nervous.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ears, you continued. “Do you cook, Mister…?”

“Seo,” he answered, offering his hand to shake. You clasped it with a gentleness so sweet, no one would ever believe you were a sadist.

“I’m Carrie,” you replied, chuckling at your last-minute name choice.

You batted your eyelashes at him and smiled softly, pretending you’d never been inside his condo and seen his barren refrigerator. The Kim family employed their own chef. It was fair to assume Taehyung couldn’t boil an egg.

“Sometimes,” he lied, “if I have someone nice to cook for, that is. I love to eat, but the opportunity to share a meal seldom arises.”

His lips spread to a pleasant expression, offering you a handsome view of his side profile you often saw in the news. If you had been a younger woman with no experience, you would have melted at that line.

“Oh,” you frowned, pouting your lip a bit. “You don’t have anyone special in your life?”

“Not at all.”

Not a complete lie, as you knew him to be quite the playboy. Being one of the most eligible bachelors in the city afforded him many opportunities to date.

You placed your hand on his thigh to signal that the conversation would be adjusting very soon. “I’m sorry to hear that. I can only imagine how hard that must be for your big appetite.”

His eyes drifted to the peek of cleavage edging your dress, then returned to your face. “I’ve lived a hard life, but I get by as best I can.”

If you didn’t know any better, you probably would have believed him. Your client was a superb actor, as you suspected he had to be, given all the years he spent in the public eye. The truth was that he was born with a silver spoon: a trust fund so massive he wouldn’t need to work a day in his life if he wanted.

When he asked to hire you, he was fresh out of business school. He lacked direction, spending more time on expensive vacations than working with his father, or anywhere for that matter. Leo’s initial report was a blatant, “Fuck no, walk away, Cat,” but when you made the call to cancel his request, he broke down, spilling more information than you cared to know about him or his family.

And he changed your mind.

You and Kim Taehyung grew up in the same city, but on opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. When you were young, if you wanted anything nice, you had to beg for it or trade a favor. He could dip into his allowance, a sum that was more than your father ever made at the plant. All your current wealth had been earned off your own back, whereas his wealth had been given to him for nothing. You recognized the hard work of his father, a man who used his wealth to improve the city. The Kim name adorned a number of buildings, parks, streets, and schools. The philanthropy was admirable, if one could look past the opiate sales.

Their son was a spoiled brat in your eyes–until you called to cancel and learned the real reason he hired you: his mother. The late Mrs. Kim was remembered as a soft-spoken, kindhearted physician’s assistant who fell in love with Dr. Kim at a young age and dedicated the rest of her life to serving his dream for a better and brighter city. She was the face of working mothers, often imparting the importance of balancing work and family at charity events and on television interviews. You imagined a woman like that would be a loving and doting parent, which is why it was a surprise to hear the cries of her son on the phone soon after her funeral, begging not to be abandoned.

You remembered barking at him that your time wasn’t about to be wasted serving a spoiled brat—and regretting the words immediately when he broke down. He confessed the reason he wanted to hire you was because he had spent his whole life hating his mother, a woman he described as cold, distant, and too busy to be present in his life. When she was around, she was verbally and physically abusive to him, cutting him down with her words and firm hand until he was convinced he was worthless.

He called the service line out of desperation because, as he discovered in college, he could only climax when he was being degraded. He explained that his name and status made finding a willing partner impossible; everyone he asked to hurt and humiliate him were too scared of being sued. As a last resort, he hoped he could hire a professional who would be ruthless—as his mother had been—without fear of reprisal.

As someone who grew up with a mother who criticized every shortcoming, you were empathetic. You understood how a mother’s words could be branded in the brain and haunt you years later. So, you started the conversation over, negotiating more specific terms in light of the revelation. Humiliation, degradation, and physical stimuli were standard fare for him and had been for months, but he was growing bored and wanted to try new things, more involved play. And today was the first test to see what he could handle.

Clutching the bag of groceries closer to your body, you used the tall height of the bag to create another barrier between your client and the rest of the subway car.

You leaned forward and nuzzled the tip of your nose against the shell of his ear, letting your warm breath waft over his flesh in a gentle breeze. His expensive cologne filled your nostrils and you lowered your voice to address him.

“There are less people here now so I think we’re okay to stop the charade, but you look a little nervous. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

He turned his head and nodded, his eyes shifting between focusing on your eyes and lips.

A wicked grin stretched across your features. “Are you wearing them?”

Taehyung’s tongue poked from between his lips, the muscle grazing the edges of his mouth to show his apprehension. Nodding his head once more, he signaled he was ready to continue.

“Show me,” you directed in a low tone.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in a deep swallow as his long fingers unfastened the button of his dress slacks and began to unzip his zipper. Your eyelashes fell as your gaze affixed to his movements, eagerly anticipating what he was about to reveal.

As the panels of his slacks parted, you could see a peek of lace, pink and delicate like a fresh dollop of strawberry meringue. The lace graced the garment with a beautiful edge and as he opened his pants wider, the silk fabric encasing his bulge came into view. The shimmer of the fabric was tastefully muted. He had clearly invested a lot of time and spared no expense in the task of selecting the perfect pair of women’s panties for the special occasion: his first attempt at exhibitionism.

The edge of his thumb traced across the decorative, decidedly floral waistband and you pressed your lips together in an affirming smile as you watched him tease himself. Twisting in your seat, you repositioned your body to partially block the rest of the subway passengers’ line of sight. You didn’t want too high of a risk of seeing what he was doing.

A sigh expelled from his mouth and you realized he had been holding his breath. He was more nervous than you thought he would be, but there wasn’t a cause for alarm just yet. He was still playing, and his continued traces along the panties’ edge were enough for you to carry on.

“Those look designer, well selected,” you commented, your voice laden with honey. “How do they feel on your skin?”

“Nice,” he muttered, closing his eyes with a gentle flutter of his eyelashes. His fingertips continued to trace along the lace edge the same way you imagine he would if a woman had been wearing them; he was teasing himself a little, building up his own anticipation as you practiced.

The subway doors opened at the next chime and your client’s eyes widened. He swallowed deeply and wiped his palms against his slacks, presumably to dry the sweat from them. You turned your head and peeked down the aisle to confirm the passengers were still maintaining their disinterest, then you turned back to the young man.

“Did you see their faces?” you purred in his ear. “What would they say if they knew the prince of the city was here, wearing lace panties under all that power?”

He licked his lips. “They’d be ashamed of me.”

“They would find you _disgusting,_ ” you whispered. Your eyes fell to his lap as you stressed the word. A tent had begun to form and its emergence filled your chest with warmth. “Do you like being a filthy pervert?”

Your client leaned his head back and began to pant, your words affecting him. His cock continued to swell against the rosy fabric.

“Answer me,” you pressed, your tone inflexible.

“Yes, Mistress,” he responded. “I like it.”

“Do you get hard knowing any one of these people can come back here and find your dick bulging in these panties? Tsk, you can barely control yourself. Pathetic.”

He clenched his jaw and blinked hard, then lifted his head up to check down the aisle. But he couldn’t see anything; you had made sure of that.

“How much trouble would I get in if they caught me?”

“Well,” you lowered your voice. “That all depends on how horrified they’d be. These people want to go home. They don’t want to see your perversion on the public transit. Their trust in your family would be ruined because every time they try to buy your pills, they’ll remember these”—you flicked your fingertip against the lace—“and think, ‘what a freak.’”

He nodded in agreement as a droplet of sweat formed on his brow. His dick was swollen, fully erect in his dress slacks and you knew if you continued with this sort of talk, he would cream himself. The engorged tip was threatening to breach the lacy waistband and you didn’t want this reaction to go to waste.

“I bet a freak like you would love to come all over these nasty seats, just spray your jizz all over,” you commented with an air of disdain.

“Yes,” he whispered, his tongue brushing along his lower lip.

“Touch yourself for me.”

His hand wandered toward his waist line, the tip of his thumb dragging along the side of his rigid length. He teased himself as though it was his first time, and when his fingers inched inside the open slacks to touch the panties, a breath whistled through his teeth. The flat of his palm pressed against his hardness as he began to shift in his seat.

You watched him expectantly, giving subsequent instructions in a low tone. “Stroke yourself a little.”

He nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest against the seat as he gripped his silk-wrapped length and began to rock his hand back and forth. Taehyung tucked the tips of his fingers as deep as the fabric would allow, pulling it taut over his cock like a second skin. Your client was a well-endowed man, and each stroke of his hand coaxed his cockhead to emerge from the confines of the undergarment, as if it was stretching to greet the afternoon sunshine beaming into the subway car. After a few moments of him building up his pleasure, you pushed him further.

“Now, dip your hand inside of those panties.”

Taehyung opened his eyes and looked at you, his dark stare equally vulnerable and enraptured. He tugged the waistband down with his right thumb as his length stretched to freedom. The first bare touch he offered it was a resolute grasp of his hand as he pressed the pads of his fingertips along a rippling side vein. His breathing shifted under the weight of the first stroke.

“That’s it, all along your _thick_ cock. Slowly,” you continued, strategically stressing words, holding his gaze.

His eyes never left yours as he tucked his lips between his teeth, compressing them into a thin line. You felt proud of him for making it this far—for masturbating on a subway with little persuasion. Offering a small smile of praise, you encouraged him to maintain his course of action.

The subway chimed again as the intercom announced the rail car had stopped at the busiest intersection of the city. You were in the heart of downtown and it was approaching the afternoon rush hour. Voices filled the cramped public space and you leaned your head into the aisle to confirm that more and more passengers were boarding.

Your client’s hand froze along his shaft. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’ve already been doing it for a couple of stops,” you informed.

His pupils widened in alarm and he pulled his hand from his dick and balled it in a fist.

“I-I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

“What if someone sees?”

Raising your eyebrows, you questioned his pushing. “Are you going to follow directions?”

“Can’t we wait until it’s empty again?” he whined. His dick began to soften and wilt under the apprehension of being discovered.

“No.”

“Please?”

 _He hasn_ _’t used the safeword, so we continue_ , you recited to yourself.

“Do you really think you can bargain your way out of this mid-play? Touch it, or I will.”

Taehyung’s chest shook under his labored breaths as his eyes darted between you and the aisle.

“I can’t,” he sputtered, rapidly flicking his fingers against the fasteners of his pants, trapping his erection inside.

Before you could protest his decision, he stood from his seat and shoved past your legs, running toward the aisle. You acted quickly, gathering your paper bag of groceries and rushing after him. The subway doors were sounding their final chime, signaling their closure, when your client jumped out of the rail car and onto the street. You barreled after him, the doors nipping at the loose fabric of your dress as you escaped.

“Hey!” you shouted after him. “What the hell?! Are you not going to say it?”

Taehyung darted around would-be passengers as he left the platform, not saying a word. Tightening your grip around the bag of groceries in your arms, you set a brisk pace hoping to catch up. Your mind was swimming with mixed feelings over the events taking place. He knew his safeword, having used it in the past. Why would he say he couldn’t continue, but not use it? The heels you selected were not made for running, and the fact you were practically chasing him down the street irritated you beyond a standard workday. What street were you even on? Where was he going?

You continued to follow him, scanning street signs to regroup and determine where you were. Taehyung slowed his pace to a brisk walk, keeping his hands in his pockets to keep from arousing suspicion. You were trailing behind, calculating whether he was leading you into a trap of some kind.

 _I should just leave him and go home and not deal with this shit anymore,_ you considered. That thought recycled in your head a few moments until your client turned his head and looked over his shoulder. A touch of mischief graced his lips and you beheld his smirk.

_He_ _’s playing._

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he called behind him.

“Are you going to say it?” you asked again. Prickles of pain were spiking through the soles of your feet. “Say it!”

He started to chuckle. “I said I’m sorry!”

“You know sorry doesn’t stop anything. Are you saying the word or not?”

“Sorryyyy!” he called as he quickened his pace again. “I don’t want you to be upset at me.”

“Then _why_ are you running from me? Stop running!”

“We’re almost there.”

Taehyung turned a corner down a dirty alleyway and your chest tightened as you swallowed the apprehensions from his choice.

_It’s still daylight. If he was going to kill me, he probably would have done it during an earlier session._

Much to your relief, the alley was devoid of people. When you crossed the other side of it, you checked street signs again to discover you were only two blocks from Taehyung’s condo. The realization of his true intent came into view: Your client meant to go home. He didn’t say “bamboo” to end the play because he didn’t want it to be over. The game was still taking place.

The condo didn’t look like the epitome of wealth on the outside, however there was a sharply dressed doorman out front, and he looked puzzled to see you scurrying after your client. You felt like a fangirl begging not to be rejected and the embarrassment of it made you feel stuffy in your sundress.

“She’s with me,” Taehyung told the doorman, who shook his head like he didn’t want to know any more.

You huffed in irritation as you approached the elevator. Unable to fully determine whether your time was being wasted, you tapped your foot impatiently. The elevator dinged and you entered behind your client. The thought of choking him crossed your mind.

“Are we done for the day?” you inquired, unable to mask the annoyance in your voice. “Is ‘bamboo’ not happening? I need to know what the fuck we’re doing. You broke the—”

“These cameras record sound.”

You didn’t utter another word.

When you arrived at the front of Taehyung’s door, a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. You were angry, and while that would work for degradation, you didn’t relish the feeling. It was imperative to remain in control of your emotions, especially while working with a client.

_If I don_ _’t get control back, I’m fucking done._

The door opened and the first thing you noticed, as always, were the clean, cream-colored hues of his bamboo floors. They paired well with his streamlined, contemporary decor that you assumed to be overpriced, but it worked for him. The multiple bamboo plants scattered among signature pieces of furniture reminded you how excessive he truly was when he liked something.

Taehyung slowed to a standstill and pivoted on his heels to face your wrath head-on. He pressed his lips to a tight, thin line as he waited for you to react to him being within reach, away from cameras.

“You know you’re going to be punished.”

Your voice was low and cold, like an icy promise of things to come. You set the bag of groceries on the floor and grabbed his jaw, squeezing his cheeks until his tongue was visible.

“I know,” he whispered. His pupils grew larger with desire. “Punish me, Mistress.”

Upon hearing his request, you released his jaw and re-calibrated the evening’s intentions. Your original plan had been to encourage him to masturbate in public, have a little fun in the process. His decision to abandon the original location left very little in the way of creativity. You only had a bag of food, your shoes, your outfit, and yourself. It left much to be desired when it came to punishment, but it wasn’t the first time you found yourself in an improvised scene.

Nudging the groceries aside with your foot, you removed your cardigan and gave the first command, letting your voice cut through the thick air like a cruel blade.

“Strip.”

He raised his eyebrows. “All of it?”

“Every goddamn piece.”

He sighed regretfully as he removed his outer layers of clothing, starting with his shoes and socks. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked at you expectantly, waiting on you to change your mind and backpedal on your instructions. You had no intention of doing so, as your feet continued to throb from the earlier dash.

His lean form stiffened under your inspection, but he continued. His long fingers unhooked the button of his dress slacks and dragged the zipper from his waist to his scrotum. The closer he grew to removing the pink panties, the slower and more delicate his movements became. His pants pooled around his ankles and he stepped away from them, tenderly tucking his thumbs inside the lacy pink waistband.

As the treasured fabric slid down his thighs, your plan for punishment took form in your mind. He bent to the ground to pick up the panties and hold them in his hands, allowing them to be the only article of clothing that graced his skin. His dick was flaccid, dangling between his legs as though he were home alone.

Your client’s focus was on the rosy, soft folds of lace in his hand even when you approached him.

“Fold them and hand them to me,” you directed in an even tone.

He bobbed his head and began to do so, holding the small pair in his hands and folding the decorative edges—one side over the center, then the other side. The degree to which he applied the utmost care would have bordered on comical to a layperson on the street. To the outside world, he was folding too slowly, applying the same amount of concentration it takes to dismantle a bomb. But to a person in your world, he was in church, praying to the paraphilia which drove his urges and his actions.

The young man handed over the garment like he was seeing a child off to their first day of school. You took them in your hand, receiving with a gentle touch that mirrored his devotion.

“Get into plank.”

He huffed, clearly in disapproval of your instructions. “For how long?”

“Until I’m satisfied, brat,” you sassed, hand anchored to your hip like a mother scolding over uneaten vegetables. “Now, plank!”

Your client lowered himself to his knees and gave you an irritated expression. In less than ten minutes upon entering his home, you had seized his prized possession, left him naked on a wooden floor, and restricted his mobility. He pressed his hands and bare toes against the cream-colored floorboards, stretching his body out until the entire length of it was as stiff and rigid as his cock had been on the subway.

After his body was in the proper position, he lifted his eyes toward you, silently seeking your approval. To signal you were accepting of the form he had taken, you placed the folded bundle of underwear on the floor between his hands. The sigh which released from your client's lips sounded like a cross between relief and frustration. In your mind, they were a motivation, the reward he could reclaim if he took his punishment properly. 

Taehyung's face rocked to the floor to look over the panties, licking his lips as he did so. The sight of it amused you; your client was as immobile as a dog with a toy balancing on the tip of its nose. As he hovered over them, you reached behind your back and unzipped your sundress, letting the fabric fall to your ankles. His eyes departed the pink panties on the floor to look at your lingerie. The pastel teal selection was similar in design to his, both effeminate and reminiscent of springtime. When his gaze traced your garters to the sheer hosiery wrapped over your thighs, you mentally confirmed the value of your purchase. Your client was a fan of pastels—no matter the color—and now you were sure of it.

"What happens now?" he asked, his voice wavering with a lack of surety.

Your rose-colored heels tapped against his floor with each step you took. As you paced back and forth in front of him, you answered, "You're going to stay there and look pretty, like a statue. You're useless for anything else, wouldn't you agree?"

He cleared his throat as he spread his fingers wider against the wood grain. "Yes, Mistress."

A hum of satisfaction brushed across your lips. You commenced taking a stroll about the room, walking slowly around his body as he remained in plank, stretched across his living room floor. His shoulders were stiff and rigid as the muscles in his back and arms twitched inconsistently. You suspected he wouldn’t be able to hold the position long. He was healthy enough for the activity, but his upper body had limitations. It was important that you finalize your future plans for him as quickly as possible, before he faltered.

As the sounds of your heels encircled his body, you tried to plan your next move. Do you stuff the panties in his mouth? Do you step on them in front of his face? Even without your standard equipment available, there were still enough options to select from, each with the potential to yield a different result from your client. He wanted to be punished, as he said, but you were unsure how far to push him, as he panicked and changed the plans mid-session already. Such a response was hard to predict in any client, even for you. Admittedly, you were unsure how best to handle him. You no longer knew where his line in the sand was.

The answer to your predicament of what to do next came in the form of your client wincing. His taut ass clenched, arms trembling against the newfound toil of remaining in a stressed position for too long. You returned to examine his face to find that he had begun to sweat. Beads of salty effort were sprouting across his skin. As he faced the floor to focus on the pink pair of panties before him, a sizable drop was on the brink of falling from the tip of his nose.

The corners of your lips stretched into a wide smile. It was almost cruel, reveling in his discomfort.

You stood next to his shoulders and elongated your fingertips. As the soft pads of your fingers graced his skin with tenderness, he shuddered. Gooseflesh arose along his shoulder blades as you traced your touch down his body, with just enough pressure to tickle. He rocked his body in an effort to avoid your tease, but was unable to manage it. He could barely maintain his balance and you counted on that.

Flattening your palm, you reared your arm back and brought your hand down on his ass with enough force to cause his skin to ring out with a loud crack.

“Ow!” he cried out, turning his head to anticipate your next move.

You spanked him again, then knelt down to grab his scrotum and give it a tug. His arms buckled at the new violation and you saw his legs tighten as he tried to focus on anything but where your hands were placed.

“Are you feeling tired? Weak?” Your voice was as gentle as a doting parent caring for a loved one.

Taehyung rasped, “C-can you move the panties? I’m sweating on them.”

You chuckled in a menacing tone. “You should have thought about that before you jumped off the rail. I want you to stare at those disgusting panties until they make your balls ache.”

He grunted and straightened his shoulders again. He was fighting the will to collapse and give up, exactly as you hoped he would. By breaking him, you aimed to make him stronger. That, or at least strong enough to follow through on the sexual urges he wanted for himself.

“Drip. Drip. Drip. Sweet, salty drops of sweat,” you commented in a sing-song tune as you crouched in front of his face. “You’re going to ruin those panties. You know that high-end fancy shit isn’t built for longevity.”

He rattled his head, hoping to shake the next impending drop away from his face. His expression was a blend of frustration and alarm, but his pupils were blown out, staring accusingly with an animalistic ferocity. You were affecting him a great deal more than he wanted to reveal. A knowing expression stretched over your face as he tried to conceal his true feelings. He stared at your lips as if he wanted to bite them.

“Are you regretting running out on me yet?” you asked, pouting your lip in feigned sympathy.

“No.” He lifted his chin in prideful confidence.

“No?” You couldn’t help but grin. “And why is that?”

He returned your smirk with one of his own. “It’s not like you to leave me here like this. I’ve pissed you off for real this time.”

Standing to your feet, you had to admit it. You were frustrated by the ever-present aches in your feet.

So, you stepped on his back—digging your heel into his shoulder blade—to confirm his suspicions.

Taehyung groaned and the sound of his pain reignited your commitment to the role you were born to play.

“You’re damn right, you have.” You confirmed his allegation with a twist of your knee, until the skin of his back bunched up against the hard stiletto heel. “We were going to have a nice time on the rail and go to dinner, but now I have blisters on my feet from running after your ungrateful ass.”

Your client started to laugh, probably from remembering how the subway door nipped at your dress as you scrambled after him carrying that ridiculous bag of groceries.

“You think that’s funny?” You changed legs and dug a fresh heel into the center of his back.

“Ah!” he winced, then gritted his teeth as he retorted. “I hope you’re drawing blood, you sadistic bitch.”

_Wha–that fucker!_

You braced the base of your shoe against his right shoulder and shoved him, making him topple over and collapse on his left side. He protested as he frantically reached to rub at his shoulders, but he couldn’t alleviate the pain for long before you yanked him up by the ear, making him yelp.

“Get on your knees, crybaby.”

“My arms are sore!”

Taehyung crossed his arms, which left his genitalia free for you to seize. You released his ear and leaned over to grab his dick, half-hard from your scolding. Lifting it up, you smacked the underside of his balls with three sharp pops. His eyes welled up with tears as the cry of pain you expected to hear became trapped in his throat.

He swallowed it down and you felt his dick throb in your hand.

“More.”

Instead of rewarding his tender flesh with a stroke, you delivered a cruel open-handed slap across his face with enough force to whip his head toward the adjacent wall.

“You wanna try me again?” you barked.

He panted, mischief flickering in his eyes. “More.”

The deep tone in his demanding voice made his urging all the more irresistible. Your core knocked with a low thud, compelling you to clench your thighs together. The rate of your heartbeat accelerated as you witnessed your client grow more and more aroused with each blow.

Another strike crossed his face.

“You like that?” you taunted with a wickedness you felt down to your bones.

He dragged his tongue along the swollen edges of his lips and you wished, more than anything, to ride his face until you were thoroughly sated.

“More.”

You sent another blow to his left cheek. It was harder than the previous one, leaving his jaw hanging loosely as a wanton moan crept from the back of his throat.

“More, Mistress—ah!”

This time you slapped him before he could tighten his jaw. As his head lolled from the sensation, you launched a glob of spit into his open mouth. The saliva pooled on his tongue, mixing with the remnants of his insatiable thirst, a dance between his wants and what you were willing to provide. He closed his lips and rolled the juices along his wet muscle before swallowing it, his eyes rolling in the back of his head in affirming pleasure.

Upon giving him the degradation and pain that he so desperately sought in each session, you witnessed the emergence of his fully erect cock, its swollen, bulbous head commanding your full attention.

You knelt in front of your client, brushing the dark strands of hair from his eyes. His pupils were awash with lust, drunk on your interactions. He was dangling on the edge between being a complete brat and a sobbing mess. You touched the edge of his chin to examine your handiwork. His face was swollen, but had no cuts or anything which would be permanent.

Dropping your hand from his face, you took his throbbing need in your hand and squeezed him gently. One stroke, then another, just to see how softly he closed his eyes as you did so. For a session that started off rocky, you felt as though you had saved the evening with the flat of your palm. The same hand which hurt him could save him, and he knew the fact more than most of your clients.

“God, you make me so hard,” he said, his voice a blend of ecstasy and adoration.

You smiled, nuzzling your nose against his as you continued to tease his length. “Good, I should spit on you more often.”

His tongue reached from behind his lips to coax you to fall into lust with him. The moment your lips touched, you interlaced your tongue with his and savored the vibration of his low moan slipping into your mouth. You gave him more generous strokes, reaching all the way down to the base of his cock, and with each pulse, heat filled your cheeks.

Taehyung’s hands wrapped around the small of your back. His touch rekindled the urging between your legs, but your pleasure wasn’t the focus this evening. You let yourself hope for a moment that he would ask to touch you as you were touching him, but after months of service, he never had. He never asked for anything beyond the fire and fury of your hand and tongue.

He trapped your bottom lip between his teeth and playfully tugged at it—a small transgression he knew he wasn’t allowed to have. You dropped your hands and he began to chuckle, offering a wicked expression.

“Did I say you could bite me?” you prompted.

“You liked it,” he teased, narrowing his eyes. He trailed his hands lower and let them rest on your hips. Drumming his long fingers against your flesh, he dangled the prospect of a more intimate action. He must have assumed you wanted him based on how you were kissing, but you knew he was just playing with his food with no intention of eating it. As much as you wanted to kiss his swollen lips and taste his tongue again, you refused yourself. The sensations would only make you more wet than you already were from hearing his enthusiastic participation. You didn't want to bring that discomfort on yourself without the means of relief at your disposal.

You redirected his attention by leaning behind you and retrieving the pink panties which had been his most treasured possession during the play. The act of unfolding the cloth in front of his eyes made him inhale sharply. He began to nod, silently encouraging you to continue with whatever wicked design you wanted to implement.

"Are you happy to see these again?" you asked, your voice simpering and sweet.

His lips were mere inches from yours. “Yes,” he said, his confession brushing across your lips.

“Do you want me to touch you with them?”

“Please, Mistress.”

“Hm,” you replied, smiling to yourself as your countenance darkened. “Do you think you deserve to be touched after what you did?”

Taehyung’s eyes widened in alarm as he realized your punishment wasn’t over. He pursed his lips and began to pout.

“No,” he answered.

“That’s right. You only take and take and take. You never earn.”

His face fell and he slumped over his knees, his hands resting on his thighs. You stood to your feet and looked down on him with disdain.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded.

He dropped his jaw open as wide as possible and flattened his tongue against his lower lip. You scrunched the panties into a ball and stuffed them into his mouth. Your client hummed and started to pant as you did so.

“Did I say you could make noise, pervert?” You delivered a sharp smack across his face. Your client moaned from the blow, the sound of it muffled by the fabric.

His eyes became lively once more and without provocation, he groaned in a challenging manner, his gaze piercing yours.

_He really wants it today._

“You like the taste of your failures?”

Taehyung nodded.

“Speak, tell me how much you love it.”

He furrowed his eyebrows and paused, silently questioning how you could expect him to talk with his mouth stuffed. You tilted his chin up with the tip of your finger.

“Did I stutter?”

You grabbed his dick and twisted it cruelly to compel him to answer. He began babbling muffled words like a child tattling on another child. Every word was indiscernible from the next, but the act of making him attempt speech under the circumstances was the whole point.

“Pathetic,” you commented with a superlative air. “I don’t think you’re deserving of my effort or my time.”

His cock jumped at your words, so you continued, pointing to his legs.

“Lean back on your heels and spread your knees. Wider. Wider. Like a bitch in heat. Better.”

Your client’s knees were spread to the point of discomfort. You anticipated his back would be sore the next morning already, but you were almost through with him. His eyes retained their sense of despair, yet his length remained remarkably hard and in need of relief.

“Open,” you instructed as you pried his lips apart with your fingers to pull the panties from his mouth.

He didn’t protest when you removed them from his mouth, but his heady gaze followed your hands to see where you were taking his prized possession.

“The only reason you’re getting anything is because I’m taking pity on a pathetic weakling, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You have disappointed me greatly today, but you took your punishment well—better than usual, in fact—and you followed my rules about touch from our last time together. Do you remember them?”

He nodded his head. “One: Never touch Mistress unless she touches first. Two: Always touch Mistress softly, even if she doesn’t.”

“Especially if she doesn’t,” you stressed. “Because you remembered that for today, I’m going to let you come.”

A sigh of relief billowed from your client’s lungs and he loosened his shoulders.

“But,” you added, “it won’t be by my hand tonight. You lost that when you gave me these blisters. Now my feet are ugly and they hurt. That’s _your_ fault.”

Your tone was cruel, like a vengeful mother’s, and while you knew things like blisters were part of the job, especially in heels, you recognized the opportunity to scold him over something new. Degradation at the level he required meant forcing him to see new failures from different angles at every session. Your words stung, making his head hang low, and while that reaction felt wrong in your mind, the sight of his erect shaft wagging intermittently confirmed you were saying exactly what was required.

“Give me your hand,” you directed.

He lifted his hand and opened his palm face-up, spreading his fingers to prepare to receive your offering: the damp panties. The pink hues had changed colors thanks to the copious amounts of saliva soaked in its fibers. You wanted to wash your hands, but you couldn’t leave him when you were rendering the only gift he would receive during the session.

“You’re going to jack off with these and I’m going to watch you do it. You will not tease yourself and you will not set your own pace. You’re going to stroke that monster until you destroy those panties. I don’t care if you chafe your dick until you bleed.”

Other clients would be horrified by the idea of chafing from the lacy waistband of women’s panties, but not Taehyung. He was smiling like Christmas had come early.

“Well,” you drawled in an uninterested tone, “I don’t have all day.”

Your kneeling client flattened the panties against his palm and wrapped it around his shaft. His Adam’s apple bobbed slowly, like he was trying to calm himself—to downplay how aroused and excited he was to finally have a route to what he wanted.

You watched him stroke at a gradual pace as you pieced together the next several sentences of dialogue in your mind. It wasn’t always easy playing this sort of actress; the wrong words at the wrong time could have an unwanted effect. You wanted him to come so hard he wouldn’t be able to see straight, but that was difficult to achieve for any client. He was still learning, still apprehensive of others’ opinions, especially yours. It would take at least a couple more sessions for him to achieve the exhibition fantasy he described to you, and you confirmed that today.

He glanced up at your face to see you were still watching him closely. You refrained from blinking and folded your arms.

“Did you think I wasn’t going to watch your every stroke?” you sassed, leaning on one hip. You hoped he wouldn’t say something unexpected that would force you to improvise beyond the norm.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, looking down at his hand as it moved.

 _Easy_.

“Sorry for what?”

“For your feet.”

“Are you saying that because you wish it was my hand instead of yours right now?”

He bit his lip and stroked faster. “Yes.”

“Maybe now you’ll understand that I’m not one to be fucked with,” you retorted in a sharp tone. “You will _feel_ the consequences for wasting my time. I will magnify every fuck-up you make.”

The last sentence made his jaw loosen. A part of you wished you had known his mother as he did so you could find the precise words to use with him. You assumed “fuck-up” was one, based on how his face quickly changed.

As his hand glided the pink panties along his cock, his chest rose and fell in panting breaths. Each exhale carried a piece of his voice, his pleasing baritone notes filling your ears. You carried on with your commentary.

“You’re a dirty, filthy, disgrace of a man.”

“Weak.”

“A failure who will never live up to the Kim name.”

“Ah,” he groaned, closing his eyes. He increased his pace like he was running out of time.

You pressed further. “I bet you want to parade in that lace across the city, with your offensive bulge spilling past the seams.”

“Ungh, yes.”

“Does your cock get hard knowing it’s rubbing where it doesn’t belong? Those don’t belong to you, Taehyung.”

He moaned when he heard his name, so you offered more.

“Pervert.”

“ _Deviant_.”

“Ah, shit,” he hissed through his teeth, his hand twisting to give his cockhead a new sensation.

“Do better, you’re boring me,” you barked. “Soil those panties. Ruin them.”

He whined with frustration and readjusted his hand. His brow was damp from sweat and scrunched in distress. Your client was hovering at the edge, but unable to push over just yet.

You twisted the knife with your words. “If you don’t come all over yourself in thirty seconds, I’m walking out that door and never coming back.”

His eyes widened in terror. “Don’t leave me, please!”

“Make me stay, then,” you ordered with a disapproving point of your finger in his face. “Spew your disgusting jizz over what you love most, you waste.”

“Ah, f-fuck-fuck- _fuck_ ,” he chanted. He winced, dropping his jaw and moaning loudly as his face shook with a tumultuous wave of pleasure that racked his body all the way to the spurting tip of his cock.

The sight and sound of his explosive emission was powerful to witness, taking your breath away as your core throbbed in response. He squeezed his eyes shut as his body recoiled in overstimulation. Continuing to stroke himself, he milked his wanton need to the very last drop until it hurt. The translucent ropes of cum which escaped the silken trap stuck to the polished bamboo floors, less than a foot away from where you were standing.

He groaned and blinked his eyes open as he released a heavy sigh. His dark orbs were awash with tears. He looked equally reborn and on the brink of passing out. His chest was trembling and his hand shook lightly with the panties still clutched in them, sticky with the aftermath of his efforts.

You allowed a moment of silence to hang in the air to mark the transition out of the session and into aftercare.

“Well done,” you praised, stepping forward to kiss your client’s forehead.

He was still panting, blinking repeatedly to clear his eyes. You kissed his cheek and pressed a tender peck to his lips. His responses to your touch were delayed, sluggish.

“Here, let me help you.” Your voice was soft and maternal, inviting him to relax his breathing and return to normalcy. Taking the panties from his hand, you squeezed the base of his dick and slowly pulled your hand along the shaft, coaxing the last few drops of cum into the crumpled fabric. Taehyung groaned softly, indicating soreness, as you expected.

“You can adjust your legs now,” you suggested. “I recommend sitting with your legs out in front of you.”

He followed your instructions and moved his legs, straightening them and pointing his toes. You were anticipating a remark or laugh, anything, but he was uncharacteristically silent.

You placed your palm on his back to comfort him and call him back to the present. “Taehyung?”

Upon hearing his name, he snapped out of whatever train of thought he was in. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

_There he is._

“That’s what you pay me for,” you reminded him, placing the panties on the ground and moving to sit across from him.

You crossed your legs and scooted closer. He mirrored your movements and placed his hands on your knees, pulling until your legs were touching each other. You lifted his chin up to inspect his face, then brushed some of the sweaty fringe from his forehead. His eyes softened and he smiled, but his chest was still rising and falling at a speed which concerned you.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm,” he hummed, answering in the affirmative.

You creased your brow and continued to inspect him. “You’re still trembling.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Can we lie on the floor a bit?”

“You don’t want to lie on your bed instead? It’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’d like to, but I don’t think I can make it there. I’m dizzy,” he said, wiping his forehead.

“Let me get you some water,” you offered, backing away to fetch him a glass of water.

When you re-entered the living room, you switched on the ceiling fan for him.

“Here,” you offered, handing him the glass. “You may not have been fully hydrated after that walk and everything we did. Drink, then we can cuddle in your bedroom. How does that sound?”

“Can I shower first?”

“Sure, but I’d use lukewarm water. If you run it too hot, you might pass out.”

“You can join me and keep me upright,” he suggested, still trying to flirt through his exhaustion.

You were careful with your words. “We didn’t agree to that this time, and I don’t have any extra clothes. I only had the bag of groceries, remember?”

“Oh yeah, sorry.”

 _He_ _’s still out of it_ , you thought. You watched as he finished his drink and stood on wobbly legs. You followed closely behind him, monitoring how he walked, as he went to the master suite bathroom and started the shower.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me,” you told him.

He murmured a “thank you” as you left him to wash away the soreness in his back and legs. Taking a seat at the foot of his bed just outside the master suite, you rubbed tight circles into your neck. The soreness from looking down and bending low would have their price, but it was a common occurrence. You would recover quickly from it if you took the day off tomorrow.

_I need to ask about the subway, plan next steps. He still likes being watched. The thrill of being caught isn_ _’t quite working. Maybe he doesn’t want that. Ugh, maybe he doesn’t know what he—_

Your thoughts were interrupted by the low hum of his voice emanating from the shower. It made your body stiffen in alarm as you tried to gauge whether he was hurt or upset. It wasn’t unheard of for you to interrupt showers to care for a client in need. The aftercare hadn’t fully run its course, so the chance of him becoming overwhelmed by the emotions of the session were still relatively high. You leaned forward and turned your head to listen more closely.

He was singing.

It wasn’t belting a number or him trying to sing for an audience. Rather, it sounded like the low hum of a song one sings when they’re comforting themselves. You had never heard him sing before, but the harmonious notes drifting from the bathroom put you at ease as well. He had a beautiful, pleasing voice and you felt privileged to hear that side of it.

 _He_ _’s recovering well, good_ , you noted. It was early confirmation of a job well done. Had he remained in a state of distress, he wouldn’t be able to comfort himself in so stable a tone. As he continued to sing in the shower, you picked up some of the words and experienced the pangs of loneliness from them. He sang of loss, and the melody was so sorrowful that you felt the ache from outside the door. You wanted to hold him and be held in return.

When he came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, his eyes appeared weakened and listless. “Are you sure you don’t want to shower? I have clothes that are loose enough to fit you.”

“I’ll be okay, thank you for the offer, though.” You didn’t want to tell him that one of the reasons you wanted to keep your lingerie on was because your arousal was still clinging to the fabric of your panties. The unfinished business of how the session affected you would need to be addressed later. You couldn’t ask him to take care of it, as it was outside the bounds of your agreement.

Taehyung slipped on a loose pair of boxers and climbed into the bed. You toed off your heels and joined him, scooting close and lifting your arm up to coax him to rest his damp head of hair onto your chest. He wrapped his arm around your waist and you felt the warm assurance of his attached form.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked, rubbing a gentle palm against his back.

He nodded and nuzzled his nose against your neck. He lifted his leg and let you tuck your thigh between his, anchoring you to him. It was the small gestures like that which made him one of the best cuddlers. His generous affection was better than a lot of sex you’d had over the years, and that made you thankful for the continued business.

“Do you want to talk about what happened on the subway?”

Truthfully, it was an item you needed to discuss. You spent three sessions discussing the subway, and he had been looking forward to it. He wanted to do it, or at least you thought so. His backing out mid-play had been unexpected and you wanted to get to the bottom of it to determine whether to pull back on your expectations for him.

Taehyung sighed and his breath warmed your neck. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that anymore.”

_That_ _’s a fair answer._

“Why didn’t you call it then?” you asked, maintaining a gentle voice. “You could have stopped the play with your safeword. I would have respected that.”

He chuckled. “I figured you’d punish me harder if you were pissed.”

The corners of your lips stretched into a smile. _That rascal._

“That’s probably true. My feet hurt and you weren’t cooperating,” you replied. “Did you like your punishment?”

An approving hum slipped from his lips and he held you closer. “I only come that hard with you. You’re terrifying when you point your finger at me.”

“What does it feel like when I do that?”

“Hm,” he said, pulling away from your neck. He reached his hand down and interlaced your fingers with his. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like all the weight of being a fuck-up is getting funneled into that finger, and I have two choices: I can either crumble into nothing, or I can bust through it.”

“And come hard enough to make me worry about you,” you added, grinning.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I’m going to sleep well tonight.”

He squeezed your hand and you felt validation for your work, what you had to contribute.

“So, do you want to try exhibitionism in the future? Or is that done for you?” you redirected.

He blew a puff of air from his cheeks. “I don’t know. I really wanted it and I thought it would work, but I got distracted by the sounds. It’s frustrating.”

“It can be when you’re training. Sometimes it takes a while to clear your mind,” you assured him. “It’s normal with that type of activity.”

Taehyung nodded his head in understanding, then paused a few moments, rubbing his lips together as he deliberated how to proceed.

“I don’t know if I have it in me to do the subway again. It was going alright but I think I freaked myself out,” he said. “What if someone sees? It’s not like I would go to the station and get a slap on the wrist. Not with my name.”

 _He's probably right_ , you thought. The press would love to run an article about the son of an empire being a "panty-wearing pervert." It would sell a lot of papers, and while risk was always a part of your business, you considered that it may be too risky for him. 

"Would you be up for going to a play party instead?"

Taehyung frowned. "You know I can't be seen in places like that. Someone will recognize me."

Shaking your head, you countered, "Not if you went to a private one that was by invitation and everyone had masks on. Hear me out: there are other people as recognizable as you are who don’t want to be discovered either, and they go to them. We can go together.”

He seemed hesitant toward the idea, so you continued to present your case for it.

“I wouldn't suggest it if I thought it put your identity at risk, or mine for that matter. Plus, I know someone who hosts them. He's a close friend of mine and he’s very careful and selective about who is vetted. I could vouch for you, get you vetted under a pseudonym. It shouldn’t be too hard since my investigator already looked into your criminal record. My friend knows what I do and knows the lengths I go through to check into someone beforehand. He would be fine with a sort of stage name since he and I both use them.”

He continued to hold your hand as he considered your offer. "So, I just go and...do my thing?"

"Yes,” you answered, “you can do that thing or other things. If you get nervous or uncomfortable, you can just watch. There will be plenty there who are into being watched, trust me."

"What will you do?"

The question made you grin ear-to-ear. "Watch you. Make you do my bidding like we planned on the subway. Or we can try other activities. There are a lot of choices and I have a lot of toys. We can experiment with what you're comfortable with. We never have to venture past where you want to go, just like when you’re with me here.”

“And no one will bother me?”

“No one will be _allowed_ to bother you without my permission. You’re my submissive. I have no problems showing who you belong to.”

After a few moments of deliberation, he released a soft sigh. "I think I’d like that."

"I'll contact my friend and get you set up, then,” you replied, squeezing his hand. 

* * *

You wished the doorman a pleasant evening as you departed Taehyung’s building, walking briskly to place an ample amount of distance between you and others who could be within earshot. Setting the bag of groceries on the ground, you pulled out your phone from the bag and slid your fingertip across the screen, summoning a driver from your ride-share app.

_Six minutes to wait, not bad._

Switching to your voice notes for your phone, you began to record:

“Bamboo, initial exhibition on the subway failed. Client baited without a safeword, seeking punishment. Punishment was given with success, but improvised a lot due to limited planning and lack of equipment. In the future, bring prepared bag to all sessions assuming a possible change in plans. He’s still anxious, prone to deviate, including with aftercare activities. Suggested a play party for future exhibition activities. He was open to it. Contact N to begin vetting.”

* * *

When you first started working as the Mistress, all you cared about was digging your way out. Money was the end goal, and you pursued it with blinders on, ignoring the opportunity costs which would inevitably occur. You thought if you were getting paid for sexual services on a regular basis, you would never feel the kind of isolation you experienced as a child. That yearning for love and attention was the precursor to a host of inappropriate acts experienced as a teen. It was unsurprising you ended up working at a strip club at eighteen, all things considered.

You didn’t think badly on how you grew up, however, because it gave you the strength to survive. And you dug your way out, stashing enough money from your jobs and your clients that you had enough to retire. The thought of leaving the life behind crossed your mind every couple of months, but you always dismissed it because of this—the cold spot on the bed next to you.

As you rested beneath your blankets, you wished you had known at eighteen how lonely your own bed would feel now. Lovers came and went, clients came and went, but the constant that remained was the crisp cling of bed sheets which had not been slept in. The beds you shared were always _their_ beds, bought and paid for by the hour.

 _Maybe I should have hired someone_ , you pondered, gazing at your silicone vibrator. It wasn’t that the vibrator was a disappointment—far from it. But you missed the feeling of sex without a transaction, sex between two people who loved each other. Such sentiments were wasted on you, in your mind, but you supposed the purpose of masturbating was to fulfill a fantasy for free.

 _And to sleep, and to de-stress_ , you reminded yourself. You popped open the bottle of lubricant next to your bed and squeezed a moderate amount, some for your toy, and some for between your legs. Your core had already experienced enough teasing during the evening thanks to the low moans of your client. You had no intention of teasing yourself further. No, you planned on finding your release using the most direct path possible: the dual setting which sent vibrations to both your g-spot and your clit at the same time.

Your thoughts drifted to the most recent arousing memory you had: your session with Taehyung. His hand glided over his shaft and he groaned with a sound so beautiful you felt it in your aching need. You wanted to have him, just once, for the pleasure of making him create that sound with something other than your hand or your instructions. His restriction of no penetrative intercourse meant that you would never have him. Admittedly, that choice to make his long, thick cock a forbidden fruit only made you desire him more. It was just beyond your reach—in real life.

But in fantasy, alone with your vibrator, you could have him. You pressed the button to the setting you craved most and slid the device inside you, releasing a steady breath to relax.

He would release his jaw as he filled you to the hilt, holding you with gentle hands. His urgency, youth, and enthusiasm would add to his desperateness. He would be unwilling to show patience and wait for you to adjust to his girth, as impulsive as he was.

 _He would sting_ , you thought, thrusting the toy further inside to simulate how such an intrusion would feel. It would be worth it.

Would he kiss your neck too? Yes, absolutely. He would cling to your body as you rode him, burying his face in your neck to nibble at the bare skin.

You pressed your finger against the dial and turned the vibrations up to a higher setting. The first moan which drifted from your lips was soft, appreciative of the investment you were giving to your body.

Your free hand crept up the side of your waist to clutch your breast. As your fingertips grazed your nipple, you felt his breath on your neck.

But it wasn’t your client from that evening.

It was _him_.

The smooth expanse of chest you would drag your nails down as he hovered over your body, his silver medallion dangling from around his neck. The stone at the center of it was as dark as his eyes. You missed the way they bored into yours whenever you were together. He always compelled you to stay with him in the moment, no matter the time or place.

He always used his hands like you wanted. You twisted your pert nipple and wished it was him. His hands were larger than yours, stronger than yours. He would use them to hold you—or hold you down—as he drove his cock into your walls. You missed the way he would anchor you to him as he whispered wicked intentions in your ear.

The vibrations between your legs pulsed as your core clenched in knocking throbs. He always thrust in full strokes, none of that shallow, half-committed bullshit that bored you. Your hand trembled as it withdrew and thrust the silicone tip back inside. He would have wanted—insisted—on you feeling every inch he had to give you.

“Did you miss me, love?”

You moaned at the timbre of his voice, calling from your memories like a siren song. The coil of arousal tightened in your belly and you wanted nothing more than to smell his cologne right at that moment, on the brink of your climax.

“Mmfh, Cat…”

He groaned in your ear and you remembered how good that sound made you feel, how secure you felt when your name fell from his tongue.

The rolling wave of arousal flooded your senses as you convulsed around the silicone shaft. Your throat tightened as mewling sounds squeezed from your lungs. Your orgasm seared your skin with electric pulses as you imagined the figure in your memories climaxing with you—spurting inside your walls.

Your eyes were awash with tears as the pang of overstimulation forced you to turn the device off and withdraw it from your core. You plopped the soaked toy next to your body, resting it on the sheets which were now heated by your writhing.

“Fuck,” you panted into the darkness, wiping damp hair from your neck. Your core continued to pulse in low aftershocks, subtle reminders of who you had been with in your fantasy—the one who made you change course.

As your eyes drifted upward, the rotating ceiling fan blurred. You blinked away the tears and closed them tightly, trying to ground yourself again.

_It_ _’s over, it’s over._


End file.
